


Tougher Than the Rest

by basketcasebarnes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Basically everyone is a cowboy, Benny is also a cowboy, Castiel Deserves to be Loved (Supernatural), Castiel is a cowboy, Cowboy AU, Dean Winchester Deserves to be Happy, Dean is a cowboy, F/F, F/M, I'm sorry to the people of alabama, LITERALLY, M/M, Minor Injuries, Western AU, a healthy dose of pining, benny is a long suffering third wheel, both gay and a little homophobic, castiel picks him up, dean is a travelling rodeo nomad, horses being appreciated, i'll update tags as i write, kind of cracky but I can't help myself, making out in a barn, my dungeon master who knows enough about supernatural to be dangerous named the horses, you create intricate rituals that allow you to touch the skin of other men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:47:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28941702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basketcasebarnes/pseuds/basketcasebarnes
Summary: It ain't an easy going on the rodeo trail. It's not all Dean has ever known, but it's the only thing he's ever wanted.Until now, that is.Or more accurately:Castiel is a better pick-up man, and he saves Dean from wild horses. Along the way, they might save each other.
Relationships: Benny Lafitte & Dean Winchester, Castiel & Benny Lafitte, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I made this for me, if you enjoy it too that's cool. It's my world, so I get to be as inaccurate as I want which is also awesome.
> 
> If you don't know your way from the head to the ass-end of a horse, this will help:
> 
> https://www.paysonprorodeo.com/rodeo-101
> 
> Dean is a saddle-bronc rider, because it requires more style, grace, and is arguably more dangerous than bareback bronc riding.
> 
> Chapter 2 will be up sometime this week, I don't know.  
> More notes await you at the end of this chapter.

_He's addicted to danger_

_Ruled by passion and pride_

_To pain and fear he's no stranger_

_But his lust needs to satisfied_

_Hooked on an eight second ride_

_\- Chris Ledoux_

* * *

Rock music blares from the stadium speakers, and Dean presses a hand to his ear to hear Benny better.

The scream of an electric guitar drowns out most of his words, and he has to lean in closer in order to make any sense of his words.

“-don’t pull your heels too fast, she’s a slow start.”

He bobs his head. “I noticed that!”

The roughstock riders had done their draw two days prior to the Saturday night event, and Dean watched as much footage as he could on the horse whose name he had drawn. Most of it was poor cellphone quality, but he had managed to find a few professional videos of the stocky red mare. She took a little longer to find her stride leaving the chute than he preferred, which was a problem when he only had eight seconds to impress the judges.

He stands with Benny for a little while longer, listens to his advice on his upcoming ride and affirms that his gear was checked and double checked. He checks the fit of Dean’s protective vest twice, gives his chest a thump to mark his satisfaction. Dean forces down the spike of annoyance at Benny’s fussing. This ain’t his first rodeo by any means, but he understands his friend’s caution. Injuries from a worn cinch strap or bronc rein are rare, but not impossible. Benny knows this firsthand.

Benny gives him a final hard clap to the shoulder and turns away from Dean. He watches until Benny disappears down the steps of the platform and turn his attention back to watch what’s happening at the other end of the arena. The steer wrestling event looks like it’s just about finished, and he can see announcer of the night perched on a tall black horse, attempting to lasso the rodeo clown.

Dean laughs despite himself as Garth runs a dramatic serpentine away from Bobby Singer’s swinging rope and dives headfirst into a star-spangled barrel, his shredded denim vest flapping hilariously behind him.

Garth pops out of the top of the barrel looking for all the world like a prairie dog and shakes his finger at the announcer. Their snarky exchange, all for the sake of entertaining the crowd, broadcasts across the outdoor stadium from the microphone packs clipped on their belts.

Dean straightens when the music picks back up. It’s almost time.

An excited murmur builds among the cowboys beside him as the corral gates behind them open, announcing the arrival of their equine counterparts. Dean is no exception. A flutter of anticipation builds low in his gut as a dozen horses thunder down the narrow alley. The herd is funneled into individual chutes with some difficulty as they snort their own excitement into the cool evening air. Dean stomps across the wood planks of the raised platform and scans the unruly queue for his own horse.

It doesn’t take long to find her.

Among the dusty bays, duns, and blacks she stands out like a flare. The fading sun catches her red coat, setting the deep color into an unholy halo of fire. He sees now that the videos he watched to get an idea of what kind ride he could anticipate do the thick mare no justice. She’s bigger in person, that’s for sure.

He takes his place above chute number six where the mare was herded into and visually checks that his saddle, placed on the horses prior to staging, sits square on her broad back.

Satisfied, he looks up and watches Benny and another man ride into the arena from the other side. Dean doesn’t recognize Benny’s partner, but that isn’t a surprise. He trots in on a narrow-chested dapple grey beside Benny, who is riding the ugliest mule Dean has ever seen.

Bobby Singer makes the same observation to the audience, much to their delight.

“You ever wonder how he keeps the damn mic in place?” Cole shouts at his elbow. Dean follows his gaze to the center of the arena where Garth is- Jesus, Dean didn’t even know the kid could do a single cartwheel let along four in a row.

Dean doesn’t respond. His eyes draw back to the man on the grey. He sits tall in the saddle, and while he’s too far away to make out any facial features the dark grey of his hat and the shock of his deep blue shirt make a pretty picture, Dean decides.

Cole edges closer and peers into the chute beneath Dean. “You want to trade?”

Dean grins and shoves Cole back towards number seven. “What, worried Fine and Dandy isn’t going to be so dandy for you?” The horse chooses that moment to rear and shriek his indignation about his temporary confinement.

“I’m here for a bucking horse, Dean-o. Looks cool, but no extra points from a horse that tries to mount a fence.”

The grimace Dean shoots him passes both his sympathy for Cole and distaste for the nickname.

He slips his hands into his pocket and presses his fingers against the slip of paper there. “That’s just the luck of the draw man. Benny and I looked over this one, and she’s a slow start I guess.”

“I don’t have your memory for bucking stock, sorry. Who’d you get?”

Dean pulls the paper out and offers it to Cole.

Cole unfolds it and the sound he makes is more bark than it is laugh. “Path to Perdition. Jesus, that’s… ominous.”

“Yeah, I thought the same thing. We’ll see though.”

Dean snaps his head up as Bobby Singer tells Garth to “Get the Hell out of the way” to make room for the real cowboys. This is met with whoops and cheers from the people seated through out the stands.

“That’s our cue.” Dean stares over Cole’s shoulder at the commotion around chute ten as the first bronc rider climbs over the fence and drops onto the horse. The last thing he sees is the quick bob of a cowboy hat and then the chute gate flies open. A half second later a Journey song blasts through the cool air, and Dean feels the energy of the crowd swell.

The horse flies out in a blur of black and tan, the rider’s checkered shirt flapping with each jerk and twist the horse makes. His heels snap back and forth in time with the movement of the bronc, and Dean thinks he’s made the ride until the horse makes a leap right up against the fence. The cowboy panics, and drops his freehand to brace against the neck of the horse and Dean groans aloud.

The buzzer sounds a second later.

“Tough luck, eh Perdy?” He murmurs down the bronc stomping below him. “None of that from you, hear me?”

The pick-up men spur their horses swiftly to either side of the still-bucking dun horse. Dean isn’t sure if Benny has ever worked with the man on the grey before, but they move as an efficient team regardless. Blue-shirt reaches across the rear of the bronc and pulls the release on the flank strap while Benny presses his mule in close, and in no time at all has one arm around the kid pulling him safely from the back of the horse and deposits him on the ground.

Dean looks at the bright LED scoreboard, but he already knows what the judge’s verdict will be.

Two zeroes illuminate, and a disembodied voice comes across the speakers.

_Rider touched the horse with his free hand. No score._

The chorus of P!NK’s “So What” starts playing as the rider shakes his head in defeat and waves half-heartedly as the audience clap and whoop their appreciation.

Dean grins. Charlie must be on DJ tonight. He’ll have to text her later for a catch-up drink.

Dean watches two more riders make their best effort before he’s tapped on the shoulder by a soft-spoken stock hand.

“There’s two more ahead of you son, better get screwed down.”

Dean eases into the familiar grooves of his saddle on an unfamiliar horse, and the beat of his heart is loud in his ears. He works his jaw around the mouthguard clenched between his teeth.

The mare shifts beneath him, agitated, excited. His bronc rein is clipped to her thick halter and placed into a gloved hand, and he grunts his thanks up to the men above him.

Dean knows the instant the flank strap is pulled around the mare without watching. There’s even more tension along her muscled neck than before. She paws the earth beneath her.

He hears more than sees a chute further down open, the sound of metal accompanied by another short-lived sample of a rock song. He spares a glance quickly between the bars of gate six when a synchronized _ooooo_ is pulled from two hundred voices. The cowboy, Dean doesn’t immediately recognize who, is on his hands and knees in the dirt of the arena.

Dean purses his lips in sympathy before he turns his attention back to the horse beneath him.

He whispers words of encouragement to “Perdition” and promises to make it a good ride if she does.

The soft-spoken man leans over the fence down and asks Dean if he’s ready. He inhales deeply through his nose.

Toes turned out, heels high over the swell of the mare’s thick red shoulders.

He nods sharp, twice. “Let’s go boys.”

* * *

Once he’s sure the wiley black horse is securely headed down the alley opposite side of the chutes, Castiel wheels his own steed back around to join Benny in the center of the arena.

“This one is different,” Benny insists, carrying on with their conversation that is broken by the periodic need to collect a rider or herd a loose horse towards the collection pens behind them.

Castiel tilts his head in Benny’s direction but does not look at him.

“Why don’t you date him? You are clearly in love him.”

Benny’s laugh shakes not only his frame, but the frame of his mule who shies sideways and pins his ears.

“That’s my brother,” he drawls. “You’re confusing Louisiana with Alabama again, Castiel.”

The side of Castiel’s mouth quirks up, but he says nothing.

“See here, you’re blunt and Dean is-”

A gate alongside northern side slaps open and Castiel takes up the slack in his reins and pushes Anathema forward a few feet. He watches with disinterest as the cowboy soars over the neck of the bronc within seconds. “Two points out of ten. He could have stuck the landing better.”

They watch for a moment together as the man stumbles onto his feet before turning their horses to follow the bronc as he sprints and bucks along the fence line with what looks to Castiel as unadulterated glee. Benny rips the strap from the horse’s flank, leaning precariously forward on his tall mule. The horse, obviously a veteran of the rodeo, trots and hops his way to the other end of the arena with almost no guidance from Castiel.

He pays little mind to the names of the roughstock riders, but he perks up when he hears the name of the next horse.

It does not escape the notice of Benny beside him.

“One of yours?”

“My older brother’s,” Castiel corrects.

His family business deals in providing stock for most of the western region rodeos, and he is very familiar with the young sorrel mare that is about to make her first debut outside of Kansas.

“She’s a very tricky horse. Conniving, even. She’ll never make a perfect score because she takes her time finding a stride, but watch when she-” and then the gate is swinging wide and the red horse enters the arena with a bound.

As promised, the red horse takes her time clearing the chute area. She takes two long strides, and Castiel holds his breath waiting for the rider to drop his heels from her shoulder too soon as seems to happen, anticipating her first jump too early. It doesn’t happen.

Bronc riding was never Castiel’s favorite event to compete in. It is dangerous, and violently high-speed.

In contrast to the more secure fashion of the bareback style, in this particular event the cowboy must complete the eight second ride without the aid of rigging. Neither hand is allowed to touch the horse.

Doing so will result in disqualification and no points are awarded.

When pressed he has been known help his brothers work on untrained horses, but he finds he is better suited as a bulldogger or a team roper. As a result, he often takes the role of pick-up man when accompany Angeles Stock. He has seen all manner of bareback and saddle bronc riding while traveling the rodeo circuit, and therefore he appreciates why the latter is described as _poetry in motion_ \- when done correctly, of course.

The man in the white is exceptionally good at this.

Perdition kicks and reels violently, but the man astride rolls with her as smoothly as one might take a stroll along a sandy shore, one hand reaching high towards the night sky and the other gripping the single rein. Her usual trick of starting slow to catch would-be champions off guard before she explodes doesn’t seem to phase him in the slightest. His heels snap back and forth perfectly in sync with the mare. His hat is knocked off his head and falls somewhere behind them.

Unobstructed now, Castiel is close enough he catches a glimpse of the man’s face and somehow beyond the black mouth guard tightly clamped in his jaw he is… smiling? He wonders who has the sense of self to smile while riding a twelve hundred pound hurricane.

What seems like an eternity later, the buzzer sounds.

Castiel spurs his horse into action, Benny tight behind on the mule.

Castiel crowds Anathema into the red horse’s side while Benny grasps for the release rope on the flank strap. Relieved of the pressure, the instinct to buck should lessen but Perdition continues to fight her rider, kicking her rear hooves high and wide.

Castiel anchors himself to the saddle horn and shouts to the man to get off the bronc, but her rider is already leaning into Castiel.

At the same time a pair of strong arms wrap around his torso, Castiel drops the reins in his hand and grips the man beneath his arm. “I’ve got you,” he shouts.

Castiel snaps his head to the side to ensure the bronc rider has kicked free of the stirrups before turning Anathema away from the bronc’s flailing hooves, guiding his horse with only his legs.

The man slips as gracefully as one can from the side of a loping horse and Castiel watches as he turns at once to the scoreboard. He rakes a hand through his wild hair, which reminds Castiel…

He takes up his reins again and moves to cut off Perdition, guiding her close enough that Benny can snatch up the thick braided rein. Benny nods at him – he can handle her the rest of the way.

Castiel wheels his horses head around and he scans the dirt for… there it is. Where Anathema any taller, this wouldn’t work and Castiel adds another item to his mental checklist he holds for the little grey horse. He leans down, almost entirely out of the saddle and snatches the tan Stetson from the arena dirt.

There’s a cheer from the stands as Castiel straightens in the saddle, and he sees why.

Path to Perdition and the cowboy have earned a combined score of eighty-four. As a voice crackles over the speaker Castiel learns that is the highest score of the night so far, and it has caused a shift in the saddle-bronc rankings. Cole Trenton is now placed second, and _Dean Winchester_ will place first barring any higher score from the two riders still left.

The cowboy in question, Dean, stands beside the mule and is shaking Benny’s boot excitedly.

Castiel rides in their direction and a pulls up short a few feet away. His eyes are lighter than Castiel would have thought, the glass green eyes sparkling with adrenaline. He proffers the rescued hat without a word.

When Dean Winchester sees it, his crooked grin stretches even wider and walks “Ah!” - limps – towards Castiel.

He settles the hat over the windblown mess of his hair and makes a show of tipping the bill at Castiel. “My hero,” he croons.

Castiel winks at him, the corner of his mouth turning up despite himself.

Benny huffs and clucks with his tongue. Directed not at the mule but at Dean, Castiel realizes.

“Go on, get out of my arena. Some of us work for more than eight seconds at a time, brother.”

“ _Your_ arena, huh?” But Dean is already striding towards the fence with a chuckle shaking his shoulders. He removes his hat at the steel fence and swings a leg between the lower rails. Castiel is aware of Benny squinting at his face as he watches the arch of Dean’s back as he bends and slips obscenely slow through to the other side.

Dean’s green eyes glance back up to Castiel’s when he straightens, as if to make certain he was seen. _Interesting_ , he thinks he sees Dean say. And then he is gone, likely to find his saddle and gear.

Benny and Castiel trot back to their places together, Benny smirking like the smug bastard that he is.

“That’s him?”

“That’s him.”

Castiel hums and then it’s business as usual as the chute gates swing open once more.

The saddle-bronc event finishes, and Castiel notes that neither rider was able to beat Dean for the lead. He pats the sweat-soaked neck of Anathema as he hears the next group of broncs stomping their way from the stackyards towards the chutes.

Garth is a colorful blur as he vaults over the fence to harass Bobby Singer some more during the lull, and Castiel and Benny switch to fresh horses for the next event. Finally, Castiel relents.

“Okay. Fine. Tell me about Dean.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean rides a mechanic bull, and plans are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta is currently out of pocket, and I'm too tired to proof-read. All mistakes are my own.

_Well it's Saturday night  
You're all dressed up in blue  
I've been watching you awhile  
Maybe you've been watching me too_

_ \-- Chris Ledoux _

Dean collects his gear-- saddle, flank strap, bronc rein -- from the stockyards and makes his way to the medical tent he saw before the rodeo began. This is where Benny finds him more than an hour later, with an ice pack over his knee and another cradled behind his neck.

“Who’s your friend?”

“I’m doing fine, thank you for asking,” Benny sighs.

“Hello Benny, what’s new in the hour since we last spoke? _Who is your friend_?”

Benny sits heavily beside Dean on rickety plastic chair. “That’s old Pirate, Dean. You’ve met before, I believe.”

Dean kicks at him with his good leg, missing completely as Benny anticipates it and moves easily beyond his reach. “Funny. Not the mule, Jackass. I was referring to talk, dark, and devastatingly handsome.”

“How do you know he was tall? He was on a horse the whole time.”

“Benny, save the coy for the pond.”

Benny’s eyes alight with mirth and he shakes his head. “You’re right, Novak is a friend.”

Something in his tone makes Dean hesitate. The thought that Benny might have some sort of claim on the dark-haired stranger honestly hadn’t occurred to him, but it wasn’t impossible. Benny wasn’t as ambiguously fluid as Dean was with sexuality-- though he had confessed to Dean once about _dabbling_ with a gentleman or two in the passed. The doubt must show through on his face because Benny quickly elaborates.

“Not that kind of friend. We’ve worked together for a little while. Paired up for some team-roping a handful of times too when his brother couldn’t make it.”

“Is he- you know?” Dean makes a vague gesture.

“Dean, we talked about this. Charlie is the mind reader, not me. Words, please.”

Dean steals a glance around them to check who might be listening in. “Is he-- like me?”

“A virgin? Well a man that pretty-- I have my doubts, but I suppose anything is possible really,” he drawls.

“That’s cute,” Dean scoffs. “And so, so far from the truth. Come on, rip the band aid off. I’m a man, I can take it-- painfully straight? I knew it, knew it was too good to be true.”

“You and he do share some of the same,” Benny taps his chin in mock thoughtfulness, “Inclinations.”

Dean throws his free hand up in triumph and winces when the motion pulls the tender meat of his shoulder uncomfortably. “Was that so hard? C’mon, what else?”

“He’s a Capricorn, I think.”

“Lafitte.” Dean says his name like a warning.

“You got a knife?” Dean reluctantly unclips his pocketknife from his belt and hands it over. “Much obliged. The guy runs stock transport for _A &A _sometimes, if that helps.”

Dean frowns. “Why do I know that name? Where is that from?”

“Angeles Arbor.”

“Right, right.” A tug of recognition at the name pulls at him, but he can’t quite place why it sounds more familiar. Either way. “I thought Sinclair & Sons usually held the rough stock contract this far out west.”

“Normally, yeah. _A &A _came under new management about a year or so ago, and I am told the boss is a real cutthroat negotiator. Sinclair couldn’t keep up.” Benny flips open the knife and picks idly at his fingernails with the blunted end. “He asked me about you, you know.”

“I didn’t know, obviously. And you told him only the good things, of course.”

“It was a short conversation, seeing how there ain’t much good about you.”

Dean clutches his own chest dramatically. “You wound me. But seriously, what did he say _exactly_.”

“He was impressed with your ride tonight, is all.”

“Wow, I was also impressed with my performance. See he -- Novak, you said? That can’t be a real name -- Novak and I have so much in common already, what are the odds?”

“Same odds as drawing one of his horses, I suppose.”

“No shit? Well, give him my regards,” Dean smirks. “I’m a thousand dollars richer tonight thanks to him, I guess.”

Benny heaves himself to a stand and stretches, joints popping. “Still going to Silver Bullet later?”

Dean raises his eyes in a silent question.

“Bradbury. She sent a text earlier, informed me my presence was not mandatory but ‘highly encouraged’ for celebratory drinks.”

“Yep, that sounds right. And she’s wrong of course-- attendance is totally mandatory.”

“That’s fine, I don’t much love sleep anyway. I took the liberty of inviting Novak. You can _regard_ him yourself, then. Prize money means you’ve got the first round, don’t it?”

Benny is too slow to avoid the icepack thrown at his retreating back, and Dean’s aim is true this time. It lands with a squelching sound just above his belt. “You’re on thin ice, my friend!” Dean shouts without any actual malice. Benny’s throaty laugh is muffled as the tent flap closes behind him, and Dean’s smile at his own pun goes unseen.

Dean flexes his knee, and it creaks in protest but what else is new? Small potatoes, as the saying goes. He discards his other ice pack on the seat Benny vacated, squares his cowboy hat back on his head, and shuffles out of the tent after him.

* * *

When Castiel finally pulls into the parking lot outside the Silver Bullet Pub and Grill, it’s nearly an hour passed the time Benny gave him. He hadn’t intended to arrive so late, but between putting up Anathema in the stables adjacent to the main arena and ensuring his brother’s livestock were separated properly from the other contractor’s-- horses time had well and truly gotten away from him. He shifts his Dodge into park and takes a few steadying breaths before he cranks the door open.

His back aches, his feet are sore, and it took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to sink right into the motel bed after his brief shower. But he had given his word to Benny to at least make an appearance tonight.

The country music playing swells as he steps through the saloon-style doors of the bar, and he takes in the scene before him. The décor of the bar is… rustic: mounted deer antlers adorn the walls, photographs of modern cowboys and more antique pioneer images intermingle along the wall behind the bar, and he sees wagon wheels-turned-chandelier are suspended over the worn dance floor on the left. Towards the back of the bar in a mock-up of a wooden corral sits, of course, a mechanic bull.

Castiel recognizes Dean Winchester immediately.

His head is tossed with a lopsided grin, and the way the corners of his eyes crinkle with mirth is visible even from the entrance. His hips roll as the bull spins and tips with a manufactured rhythm, too perfect to be anything close to the real thing but Castiel has an idea already of the man’s authenticity. He is clad in a blue and yellow plaid shirt and is without the leather chaps from earlier. The denim of his jeans are stretch taught on his muscled thighs as he squeezes them around the barrel of the machine.

The sound of his name being called pulls him from his revere.

Benny gives him a small wave from beside the bar, and Castiel carefully makes his way through the crowd to him. Crushed peanut shells make a satisfying crunch beneath his boots the further into the building he moves.

“You made it!” Benny claps him on the shoulder roughly before tapping the empty seat on his right.

“It didn’t sound as though I had a choice,” Castiel reminds him.

Benny taps two fingers on the bar top, and within seconds Castiel has a cold beer pressed into his palm. “You’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Drink.”

Castiel obeys, and sighs gratefully as the cool liquid slips down his dust-scratched throat. He takes a second long drag before reaching across the bar to offer his hand to the red-haired woman sitting on Benny’s other side. “You must be Charlene.”

The woman places her fingertips in his hand and does her best curtsey, an impressive feat considering she is seated on a tall stool. “Oh please, Charlene is-- just call me Charlie. Castiel?”

Castiel slides his eyes towards Benny in question. “I told ‘em you might be coming by.”

Castiel nods and squeezes Charlie’s hand once more before leaning back on his own bar stool. “Benny tells me you’re a rodeo DJ.”

“Half-truth. I moonlight as a travelling disk-jockey, but I’m actually an independent soft-ware developer. Cyber-security for charities and nonprofits, mostly.” She sips from her beer and shrugs. “Everyone’s gotta have a hobby, right? Get it, because the DJ gig pays more than working for a non-profit?”

Castiel dips his head apologetically and shouts over the music. “Forgive me, I don’t know very much about computers. My older sister manages the technological side of our business. My talents lay more along the lines of… strategic coordination.”

They’re interrupted by Dean Winchester.

“Hey man, how are you going sign my name on Larry’s roster and not even pay attention? I did that for you.”

Dean stands with a hand on his hip, full lips pressed together in an indignant pout. Castiel takes in the faint flush of his neck and face, and he wonders if it is from alcohol or exertion from the bull. Perhaps a combination of both.

Benny turns in his seat to shove playfully at Dean. “You didn’t ride Larry for me, that was all you, brother.” For his part, Dean smirks and doesn’t argue.

“Okay, yeah. You’ve got my number there. But now we can agree that I would make a better bull-rider than you.” He has a faint drawl, much less prevalent than Benny’s Cajun vowels but Castiel can’t quite place the region it’s from.

“I’ve got ten grand and a trophy or five that proves you wrong, Dean.” Benny taps his ornate belt buckle, which Castiel hadn’t noticed before. It depicts the golden image of a man and bull super-imposed on a gold background with the words _PAIN IS TEMPORARY_ tracing the border.

Charlie catches his eye from over Benny’s shoulder and lift her brow sardonically. “Yeah, it’s always like this. Like, _always_. Benny, don’t be rude introduce your friend.”

Benny does just that, and the way Dean gently grips Castiel’s hand makes him raise his eyebrows. It lacks the hypermasculine show of force Castiel would have expected from the rough-and-tumble rodeo types. The irony that he, himself, is no doubt being judged for the same is not lost on him.

“Dean Winchester.”

“Castiel Novak.”

“Castiel. That’s… Different.” Dean waves a hand at the woman behind the bar and pulls up a barstool beside Castiel. “What are you drinking?”

Castiel looks down at the forgotten bottle between his palms and frowns. “I… don’t know?”

Dean huffs and points at the beer when the bartender swings back towards them with Dean’s own. “Another one of those, too.” She nods and then she disappears further down the bar again.

“Bronc rider, in a country bar, on a mechanical bull. That is a little on the nose, wouldn’t you agree?”

A warm feeling spreads through his chest as Dean grins and rolls his head to the side. “What can I say, I know what the ladies like.” Castiel watches Dean’s mouth part as he exhales softly, the hesitant way his green eyes glances at Castiel from the corners. “And the fellas, too.”

Castiel’s mouth quirks into a soft smile, which for him equates to a beaming smile. “Lafitte might have mentioned something of the sort.”

“I’ll bet he did.” Dean looks over Castiel’s shoulder, and they see that Benny’s back is deliberately turned to them. He and Charlie appear to be debating the merits of selecting an Android phone over iPhone, but Castiel is not naïve enough to believe one ear isn’t tuned into the conversation between himself and Dean. “What did he tell you?”

Leaning an elbow on the bar, Castiel finishes his beer and picks up the new one that appeared without him noticing. “Unfortunately, truly little. Perhaps you can fill in the gaps.”

Castiel learns that Dean is twenty-six, two years older than himself. There’s pride in his voice as he talks about his younger brother Sam, who has recently finished his final year of veterinary school with top marks, was hand-selected to work for a prestigious clinic in Kansas. In fact, most of the conversation is dominated by Sam and his achievements. Castiel, a fellow Kansas-resident himself, forgets to ask Dean where in the state the vet is based out of as Dean gushes excitedly about the shenanigans he would drag Sam into during their formative years. As he listens, his eyes take in the details of Dean’s face he hadn’t noticed at the rodeo before. The high angle of his cheekbones, the slope of his nose where it has healed crookedly-- Castiel wonders idly if it was from a horse or something else. The more he drinks, the more he finds he must watch Dean’s mouth to make out the words in the loud atmosphere.

Dean has a father that disapproves of Dean’s choice to pursue a career in rodeo. More than that, Dean doesn’t say. At some point, he blushes and realizes how little he has Castiel allowed to contribute to the conversation. “I’m sorry, I’m just-- really proud of Sam, y’know?”

Castiel curls his fingers around Dean’s wrist where it sits atop the bar, fingers tapping on the wood to a different beat than the country music playing. He hums gently, as if soothing a spooked horse. The skin there is heated and soft to the touch-- a stark contrast to the rough callouses Castiel felt on his hand previously. “I can see that. And I also don’t mind. I may work with my family, but I’m not exactly close with them, save for my favorites. To hear of your obvious bond with Sam is refreshing, to say the least.”

Dean sees the comment for what it is-- an opportunity to turn the conversation and he seizes it gratefully. Castiel’s breath catches when Dean turns his hand upwards and runs his thumb along the top of Castiel’s knuckles. How long he and Dean have been talking, he can’t be certain, but at least long enough to match him in drinking four more beers. He can feel his face heat but cannot attribute the flush to alcohol alone. 

“Right, Angeles Arbor. How’s that for you?”

Castiel tells Dean about the recent history of his family’s business. It was a humble affair, once. His cousin, Charles, was head of the business for a short time following the passing of his Aunt and Uncle in a car accident the winter before. It didn’t take long for the mild-manner author to forfeit the business to his younger sister in favor of disappearing into deep into the northwest-pacific region to focus on his writing. Oregon, Castiel thinks.

“Naomi sounds, uh…” Dean searches for a polite word. “Intense.”

“Intense is appropriate. As would shrewd. To be honest, my cousin is a bit of a hag.”

Dean throws his head back and laughs obnoxiously. “Don’t hold back now Cas.” _Cas_? “Tell me how you really feel.”

Dean leans further into Castiel’s space, and that’s when he notices just how close they’re now sitting. The slight movement forward brings Dean’s knee flush against his own, and there’s a hand on his thigh. When did that get there? “You want to get out of here?”

A flash of bravado takes over Castiel. He tilts his head to press his lips to Dean’s ear and relishes the way he can hear the other man’s breath catch. “No.”

Dean turns face, and Castiel feels the rough scrape of stubble against his jaw. Dean’s exhale is hot on Castiel’s neck as he breathes his next words. “N-- No? Cas I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, but there’s no way I’ve been reading this--” he pulls far enough away to gesture between them, “ _That_ wrong.”

The corners of Dean’s lips are downturned, his brows arched high. Castiel thinks about kissing that frown back into a smile.

“You’ll have to work a little harder if you want to take me home, Dean.”

Dean swallows, and Castiel tracks the movement with his eyes.

“Maybe a dance,” he muses.

This notion is apparently hilarious. “Sorry sweetheart, I don’t dance.”

“No, but I do!” Charlie pipes up from behind him. Castiel swivels on his stool, where Benny and Charlie sit, watching them with amusement. He had been so pulled in by Dean, he’d honestly forgotten they were not alone at the bar.

“Dean?” He turns back to Dean expectantly.

He crosses his arms firmly over his chest and says again, “I don’t dance.”

“Have it your way. Madame, this way if you will?” Castiel slides down from the stool and tests his legs before offering his arm to Charlie with a flourish. She leaps off her own seat with a giddy sound and tosses a smile at Dean, who holds his hands up in defeat.

Castiel and Charlie traipse their way to the across the filthy floor to join the other couples as they swing and twirl beneath the wagon-wheel lights.

* * *

Dean scooches over to Cas’s empty seat and crosses one leg over the other, leaning back against the bar and nudges Benny’s arm.

“Yeah, alright. I kind of like him.”

Benny snags the bowl of peanuts from the bar before turning in his own seat to watch with Dean. “Looks like Charlie does too. You might have some competition.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Nah man, I think I’m safe. This time anyway.”

Benny hums, the ghost of a smile on his face. “You talk to your daddy, since the, uh…?”

“Oh god, please call him anything else. Anything but _that_. And no, haven’t heard a damn thing. Well, no. Did get a very heated drunken voicemail, but that’s it.”

“What about that brother of yours-- you tell him about your win?”

Dean checks his watch and shakes his head. “Sammy’s asleep by now, or at least he should be. I’ll check in with him tomorrow.” Benny swats at his hand when he reaches over to grab a handful of peanuts, and he swats right back. He busies himself shucking the peanuts as a line dancing song starts and grins as Castiel and Charlie queue up in the very front. Castiel moves energetically through the high-speed kicks and stomps, and when he catches Dean’s eyes across the floor his eyes are bright and his mouth lifted in a laugh that Dean can’t hear. When Charlie misses several steps and ends up facing the wrong direction. Cas catches her arm and steers her in the correct direction without missing a beat.

They watch in companionable silence for a while. Cas has changed from his decorative deep blue shirt into yet another blue shirt, tucked into his impossibly tight Wrangler jeans. This one is lighter with paisley cuffs that he wears rolled halfway up his forearms. It fits him like it was painted on, and Dean wonderers how it would look in a puddle of cloth on the floor of his room.

“His moves ain't bad.”

"What?"

"Castiel can dance."

“Oh, right. Better than me.”

Benny nods. “Never seen you square dance before, but I can’t imagine it’s any better than how you ride.”

Dean throws his head back and laughs. “Hey now, I didn’t risk life and limb today just to get made fun of.”

“No? Then what else am I keeping you around for, if not as my comedic focal point?”

Dean ponders this and tosses back a few more peanuts. “Because I’m pretty?”

“Too pretty. You ain’t got a face for bronc riding, I’ll tell you that. Rodeo Queen might suit you better, come to think of it.” Dean bites down on a shell and spits it out at Benny just as Charlie and Cas make their way back to them, heads dipped together all conspiratorial-like. They're laughing about something, but Dean doesn't know what.

“What did I miss?” Charlie asks breathlessly, fanning herself.

“Not much, just Dean’s self-proclamation that he’s going to be the next Ms. Rodeo USA,” Benny informs her sincerely.

“Rodeo Queen? No way, not with those bowlegs. Court jester though…”

Dean is about to tell her off, but her comment makes Cas laugh and Dean supposes this is an offense he can forgive, if it means he gets to see more of the adorable way his nose crunches when he smiles. He waves his hand and smirks at Charlie. “Just keeping my options open.”

Charlie announces that she’s ready to leave and flags the bartender down to close out her tab, but Dean snatches her card before the bartender can. “This one is on me. I owe you one, remember?” She opens her mouth to object, but Dean interrupts her with an _aht aht_ and stands, digging into his jeans for his wallet. “Yours too,” he tells Cas.

“Dean, that’s really not necessary.”

“Of course it is. Consider it monetary compensation for letting me talk your ear off all night.”

Dean slides a handful of bills across the counter and turns to his friends, and Cas. “Shall we?”

Benny slips from his barstool and together the four make their way out of the saloon doors, which Dean points out are _so cool_. It’s something straight out of a western, and he says as much. Benny slings an arm over his shoulders and laughs.

“Leave it to you, a man who rides horses professionally and puts a cowboy hat on before he puts pants on in the morning to be enamored with old-school western cliches.”

“Yeah, yeah. You guys all good to drive?” Dean asks, but he’s looking directly at Cas. He knows Charlie is giving Benny a ride back to his hotel, and he himself isn’t impaired but he doesn’t know Cas well enough to gauge where his safety alcohol threshold sits. That is what he tells himself anyway, it is in _no way_ a ploy to get Cas in his car or back to his own motel.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you for asking. But you can walk me to my truck if you’d like. Benny. Charlie.” Cas nods at them both and moves to wait a few feet away.

Dean twists out from Benny’s arm and only makes it a few steps before remembering himself and doubling back to give Charlie a hug. He isn’t sure when he’ll see her again, but he knows their paths will cross sooner than later in the next month at least. “I’d stay, but…” He shrugs helplessly.

“What happened to chicks before dicks?” she mumbles into his chest.

Dean draws back to hold her at arm’s length. “I love you.”

“I know. Now go, Dean!”

“Benny, I’ll…”

Benny pulls him into one armed hug. “I’ll see you soon. What’s next? Casper?”

Dean nods. “In a few days. Casper, Malta, and then I think Salt Lake City.”

“I’ll give you a call then. Take care Dean.”

Dean bids them both farewell and spies Cas a few feet away, standing by with his hands in his pockets. He strolls over to him and offers his arm. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” he rumbles. Even through his shirt, Dean can feel the heat of Cas’s hand where it curls around his bicep. “Dean. I’m not going home with you tonight.” His tone is matter of fact, with a trace of apology.

Dean chuckles as Cas guides them through the maze of crookedly parked vehicles. “You have a hot date waiting for you somewhere?” He sincerely hopes that isn’t the case. They stop beside a silver dodge, and Cas drops his arm from Dean’s. So soon, Dean misses the contact.

“Nothing of the sort. Horses waiting for me early in the morning, I do have.”

Dean groans and leans against the door of the pick-up. “Cas, listen. I have something to tell you.”

His words have the intended effect. Castiel immediately looks concerned, brows knitted together over his deep blue eyes. “Okay.”

Dean inhales, exhales deeply. He reaches out for Castiel’s hand and grips it tightly. “You see, it’s like this: I’m leaving tomorrow. The Army called, and I’m leaving for war. I may never see you again.”

Castiel’s forehead wrinkles as his eyebrows raise high. “That’s a tragedy indeed. I suppose I should… give you something to remember me by.”

Dean nods solemnly, eyes never leaving Castiel’s face. “I reckon that, yes, you should.”

“I think,” Castiel raises his hand and rests it under Dean’s jaw, thumb pressing into his bottom lip. He draws Dean into him until he feels the heat of him through his chest, “I think…”

Dean breathes against his mouth, just inches away now. “Yeah?”

“Dean, I…” Dean hesitates to close the distance between them, still unsure if he’s allowed to. Castiel moves against him, and then his mouth is on Dean’s. The gesture is chaste, sweet even. His eyelids flutter closed, and he pushes back softly. Castiel’s lips part against his, and the taste of beer is bitter on his tongue. It’s over sooner than Dean wants. Castiel pulls away, and Dean feels his fingers move through the hair short on the back of his neck. “Dean,” he murmurs. “I think that is one of the worst lines I’ve ever heard and believe me. I’ve heard a lot.”

“The worst? Well baby, there’s plenty more behind it. Just say the word.”

Castiel drops his hand from Dean’s face and presses gently against his chest. “I really do need to be awake early tomorrow.”

Dean dips his head in defeat. “So you said. Listen, I don’t know where you’re headed to next. I’d really, _really_ like to see you again though, hear more about those over-protective brothers of yours.”

Castiel worries his bottom lip between his teeth, and Dean’s gaze flicks down to watch before jumping back to his eyes. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

The question catches Dean off guard. “Uh, I’m…”

“Meet me at the fairground in the morning. Seven A.M. work for you?”

  
It absolutely does not. Dean isn’t even human being before at eight-thirty.

“That works great.” It really doesn’t. “What are we doing?”

“I have some things to take care of.”

“Right, horses. You mentioned that.” It’s eleven hours between Caldwell and Casper, according to the almanac in Dean’s head. He doesn’t have to be there until Monday afternoon. He can put off the drive for one more day.

“So you’ll come?”

If he leaves no later than Sunday afternoon, he’ll have plenty of time to pay his entry fee.

“Dean?”

“Yes, absolutely. Seven A.M.”

Castiel smiles at him and pulls Dean in for one more kiss with a hand fisted in his shirt. “Great. Text me in the morning and I’ll give you the barn number.”

It isn’t until Dean is in the Impala, halfway to his motel that he remembers he forgot to ask Cas for his phone number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We definitely didn't get enough Charlie and Cas interaction, and that needs to be remedied.
> 
> The Silver Bullet bar is fictional, probably. I doubt Caldwell, ID has a western-theme bar with LGBT inclusivity vibes but in my world it does. This matters, because Dean is, if you hadn't picked up, totally into dudes but he's still a little freaked out by it.

**Author's Note:**

> My favorite holiday is the 24th of July - Ogden Pioneer Days. It's a local affair that sweeps up the people from every county in Utah, and draws cowboys and cowgirls from throughout the nation to the main event which is a three day rodeo.
> 
> This fic has been sitting in my head since I was fifteen, sparked to life while watching the annual rodeo because I'm a slut for intricate rituals and the pick-up men that ride around the arena to save the bronc riders after their eight seconds are up feed it like nothing else.
> 
> If you're concerned, the flank strap refers to a strap of leather that encircles the flank of the horse of bull. Horses are prey animals, and the flank is pretty sensitive. It's purpose is to encourage the natural instinct of the horse to buck, and it's secured in a way that makes it easy to remove once the buzzer sounds. It's not sharp, the horses have to be healthy and are checked by a veterinarian before they're allowed to be used for a rodeo. 
> 
> The final score of the roughstock events (bronc riding and bull riding) is a combination of the cowboys performance and the level of effort the horse gives given by two judges. Each athlete receives can receive a maximum score of 50 points, so a perfect score would be 100. Their individual scores are added and there you have it. 
> 
> Okay, that's enough for now.


End file.
